


Hunger

by Symmet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Gabriel shows up and wonders whats up with Sam, Sam is feeling those old hunger pains, also maybe kind of sabriel if you squint, but he also promised dean he'd stick to that whole "no demon blood" diet routine, dead demons, lets be real thats what i was intending it to be, not funny i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2636207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Symmet/pseuds/Symmet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finds himself surrounded by dead demons and without Dean. He doesn't know what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> Set between Mystery Spot and Changing Channels, probably before Lucifer gets freed.

> _”Hunger is a good discipline. You learn from it." - Ernest Hemingway_

* * *

 

Sam sat there for a good ten minutes, almost kneeling, in the center of the room, knees against the floor, head bowed, blood soaking into his jeans.

Blood soaking into everywhere.

He felt it in his hair, clumps of curdled death, a splash across his cheek, drying quickly, crusty and crackling, slippery between his hand and the hilt of the knife, but coagulated, sticking to his fingers like a possessive child.

He regarded the massacre almost detachedly, all of his emotional energy being expended on not moving, clamping his teeth and clenching his jaw just to stop his tongue from darting out of a white prison. Unable to breath through his nose because it made his stomach roll, because he suddenly felt it curling in his muscles and thoughts.

_Hunger_

It coated his arm, drenching through the fabric, and his skin could be bubbling for all he knew.

Sam suddenly found a scintilla of energy, began to struggle to his feet.

It hung strong on him, making him desultory, gluing him to the floor. It wasn't syrup or honey. It was molasses.

It made wet, protesting, squelching noises as he dragged himself up, staggered a step forward. He had been breathing minutely through his mouth, but now he was breathing heavily through his nose.

The _smell_ bombarded him. He felt the urge to wretch, to drink, the hunger and disgust susurrous in his mind, making his hands shake. He felt the spasms of gagging coming on.

Luckily he hadn't eaten anything recently. The hunger rushed over him.

Ok, maybe not "lucky".

 _I can't do this_ , he thinks in calm hysteria.

_No._

Before he can make the conscious effort to stop himself, because he's so tired, and afraid, because he'd spent so many years automatically doing it, every night before he went to sleep.

He prays.

Back before he knew, knew they were real, he rarely prayed for something. Once in a blue moon, when he was worried bone-deep about Dean or Dad, or, more recently, prayed that it was all a dream, first when Jess died, then Dean.

He hasn't prayed since the night Dean died, actually.

The voice melts off the walls, into his brain, making him close his eyes.

" _Sam?_ "

He hadn't been thinking. What was wrong with him? What was he doing? Why? _Why?_

The hand tentatively reaches out to the younger brother. Sam can't see him - his head is bowed again, too much effort expended on not giving in. He doesn't realize now how strange it is that of all the beings to hear a prayer, this is the one that intercepts it. He still flinches at the ghost of the touch.

The Trickster.

If he wasn't so preoccupied with not doing anything, he would be screaming.

Because of course the Trickster knew.

He'd been the one to "prepare" Sam for Dean's "departure”, after all.

Another wave of nausea washes over him, and he doubles over, bending like blade of grass underfoot. He won't give in, though.

He can't.

“What are you fighting it for?"

The question is confused, almost exasperated, sounding annoyed by the perceived stupidity of the action - or perhaps by how inconsequential the effort was.

Sam grits out a breath, somewhere deep in his brain the synapses for laughter fail to ignite in irony.

"I can’t.”

“Wrong, buddy boy, you can, and you probably will."

The answer was too quick, too unwilling to see something else. It doesn't matter, anyways. Sam has bigger things to worry about than a nervous trickster in denial. Sam curls his fingers into fists, knits his resolve back together.

Pushes himself back up, smearing blood between his fingers and the ground.

"Then I _won't_."

He makes it halfway across the room when everything starts going black. His last thought is spent wondering vaguely when - if - Dean will find him. And what he’ll say. The look on Dean's face.

* * *

 

He wakes up with a start back at the motel, knife gleaming on his nightstand. For a moment, he’s sure it’s a dream - he can’t feel it, the buzz of demon blood curling in his veins. It must have been a nightmare - a weird, twisted nightmare where the trickster had shown up. He inspects his hands, clean, nothing indicating that blood had clothed them at any point earlier. Yes, that's all, a dream.

He looks back to the nightstand, at his knife, frowning absently to himself. He wouldn’t have left it there in plain sight.

Next to it is a lollipop.


End file.
